


Let's Get Some Gay Up In Here

by ThornWild



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Awkward Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Geralt gives killer blowjobs, Hand Jobs, Iorveth is hot, Kissing, Lambert is an angry boy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pissing Contest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Cedric, Porn With Plot, Power Play, Sexy elves, Siegfried is inexperienced, Smut, seriously? there's no Geralt/Cedric tag?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-07-01 17:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that Geralt of Rivia will plough anything with tits. This is not entirely correct. As it happens, tits are optional. Yours truly, Dandelion the bard, knows this both from first hand accounts, and from . . . personal experience. The following manuscript is, of course, for my own eyes only.





	1. Eskel

**Author's Note:**

> First Witcher fic! Woot! I struggle with accepting the idea that someone as virile and sexually adventurous as Geralt only gets off with women. This is going to be a collection of smutty one shots where Geralt fucks his way through the male cast of the Witcher games. Trying to do them chronologically, but I might give up. In any case, some of these will be funny, some will be dark or sad, and, hopefully, all of them will be sexy. Pairings and tags will be added as we go.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is one thing Kaer Morhen lacks, other than the obvious creature comforts and the like, and that is women. As such, hormonal youths are forced to . . . improvise.

Eskel and Geralt often got in trouble. They were a pain in Vesemir’s, and all the other older Witchers’ backsides. They had trained together from childhood, and by the time they were in their teens, they had become good friends as well as partners in crime.

‘Get in here!’ Geralt hissed, holding the door to one of the castle’s many empty rooms open. Eskel positively flew through the doorway, and Geralt silently closed it behind them. They looked at each other and burst into silent laughter. 

The trap they had set up in the main hall would cover anyone in the vicinity with tar when set off. It was better for them to be nowhere near the place when that happened, although the odds of their elders figuring out they had done it were fairly high anyway.

Eskel looked around the room. ‘Hey,’ he said quietly. ‘Old armoury.’

‘Huh, how about that.’ Geralt approached a rack of silver swords. They were in some disrepair, the metal oxidised and dull. He noticed another door on the far side of the room. ‘Wonder what’s through there.’

He approached and tested the handle. It did not appear to be locked, so he pushed it open. It creaked louder than he would have liked, but then they were a fair bit away from the main portion of the castle anyway. No quarters or training rooms around here. The School of the Wolf was not as large as once it had been, though they muddled along still.

The room beyond was dark and small. There were no windows, but the floor was richly carpeted. The carpet was covered in a thick layer of dust that puffed up when Geralt set foot on it. Other than that, it was empty, and Geralt felt a bit disappointed, though he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to find.

They heard a noise in the hall outside. Footsteps, coming closer. If the trap had gone off already, it was likely that someone was in fact searching for them. Geralt waved Eskel closer, and they slipped into the smaller room, closing the door as carefully as they could. Thankfully, it did not creak this time.

A small sliver of light crept in under the door, and another through a crack high on the stone wall. Daylight. Judging by their position, there should be nothing but a steep rock face below, so no danger that anyone would walk by and hear or see them.

The steps moved away again, and Geralt gave a soft laugh. The excitement of almost getting caught filled his stomach, his heart pounding, and he grinned at Eskel through the semi-darkness, throwing an arm around his shoulder. ‘I think they’re gone.’

He registered Eskel’s nod more by the movement of his shoulders than actually seeing him. He wondered what that would be like after going through the Trial of the Dreams. Would he be able to see people even better in this level of darkness then? He pushed the thought of the trials from his mind. There were things he didn’t want to remember, and he had the white hair to prove it.

‘I think we’re good,’ said Eskel, putting his arm around Geralt’s waist. The reassuring presence relaxed him, and pushed the memories away.

They were often close like this, reaching out, touching. They shared a deep and uncomplicated friendship, safe and open and honest. But sometimes, when they were this close, Geralt’s heart would speed up more than it should. Now his body was shot with adrenaline, he was high on their narrow escape. He swallowed, and experimentally leaned closer to Eskel, resting his head on his shoulder.

‘So,’ he said slowly. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Hm.’ Eskel’s voice was soft, but he was breathing a little heavier than usual. Was it simply from the exertion of running and hiding, or something else? Only one way to find out.

Geralt carefully brought his lips close to Eskel’s ear. ‘Hey,’ he whispered, and the other let out a sigh. ‘Wanna have some fun?’

Eskel turned towards him. Geralt could make out his gleaming eyes in the dark, and then they were kissing. He wasn’t sure who had started it, but now they were attached at the lips, pawing at each other’s clothes with little elegance or dignity. The kiss was sloppy, clumsy, all teeth and tongue, with neither boy having much experience in the matter. 

Geralt managed to loosen the neck of Eskel’s linen shirt, gaining access to his neck and shoulders, needing to taste his skin. Eskel backed into the stone wall, leant his head back and released a low moan. The sound seemed to go straight to Geralt’s groin, and he groaned with need.

His friend’s hand pawed at the front of Geralt’s trousers, finding him hard. His other hand joined the first, trying to undo them, but in the darkness and with his hands shaking he struggled. Geralt reached down, took his hand and pressed it into the wall. His lips left Eskel’s throat and he found his mouth again. He liked how this made him feel, and what it did to Eskel, whose breath came ragged and uneven. He could hear his heartbeat, hard and fast. He also liked having the upper hand, and, letting go of Eskel’s hand again, moved to loosen his trousers.

Eskel’s prick was hard, as Geralt’s own was. There was nothing surprising about that. At their age, it generally only took a single thought for that to happen. Still, when he found Eskel’s cock already leaking, Geralt smiled into the kiss. Eskel hissed and swore under his breath. 

‘Ah! Geralt, let me . . .’ He reached for Geralt’s trousers again, and this time Geralt let him.

They jerked each other frantically for about a minute, until Geralt said, ‘Wait. Lemme try something.’ He removed Eskel’s hand and moved closer, allowing their cocks, slick with precum, to slide against one another. They both groaned at the delicious friction, hips moving erratically. 

Again, they kissed, Geralt’s hand sliding up under Eskel’s shirt to explore his warm skin. He was lean and muscular, the skin surprisingly soft beneath Geralt’s fingertips. He pressed one hand to Eskel’s chest, feeling his heart beat against his palm. He reached down again and wrapped his hand around both their cocks, stroking. Eskel moaned and bucked his hips, putting his arms around Geralt, clinging to him.

Neither of them lasted long. When they came, Eskel first and then Geralt a second later, their cries were muffled by their kisses. They stood still for some moments, panting. Then their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing, before kissing again.

Geralt’s ears, which had been full of Eskel’s pants and moans, now heard movement on the other side of the door. A split second later, light hit them all at once like cold water, and they sprung apart immediately. In the doorway stood Vesemir. He looked tired, if somewhat amused, and turned away with a scoff. ‘I see you found a way to amuse yourselves while your trap went off. Don’t try to deny it, I know it was you two.’

Flushing profusely, both boys did up their trousers hurriedly, only sparing each other a glance or two before looking away again. It was so different in daylight. Geralt felt embarrassed about getting caught, but more than that, he felt self conscious in front of Eskel, now that they could properly see one another. 

When they were both dressed again, Vesemir turned back to look at them, hands at his sides. ‘The two of you will clean every inch of the main hall. And after that, you’ll be polishing swords for a month.’ He didn’t sound angry so much as exasperated. ‘In separate rooms,’ he added, ‘to dissuade you from polishing each other’s.’

They both blushed crimson, refusing to meet his eyes. Vesemir regarded them for another moment, and then walked away.

They did not speak of what had happened, and a couple of days later things were back to normal. If Geralt thought of it once or twice while getting off, that was his own business. Eskel need not know. 

It would be many, many years before the two, one drunken winter night at Kaer Morhen, acknowledged what had happened between them at the tender age of fifteen. They regretted nothing.


	2. Lambert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were many things Lambert would never forgive Geralt for. This ranked particularly high on that list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert's such an angry boy.

‘Fuck, ow!’ Lambert glared at Geralt.

‘Stop squirming and it won’t hurt, kid.’

‘Don’t call me “kid”, old man!’

Geralt chuckled, pulling the bandage taut and winding it one last time around Lambert’s shoulder. He had skewered it on the end of his own sword after dropping it when Geralt gave him a savage kick while training.

It was getting towards winter, but Kaer Morhen was still mostly empty, not many of the Witchers on the Path returned yet. As such, even if they’d never exactly gotten along, Lambert and Geralt had few options other than to train together. The sparring had been fun, Geralt had to admit. Lambert was fierce and determined, but he was young, only a few years a full Witcher, and reckless. All Geralt had to do was feint and bide his time until he’d pissed him off thoroughly enough that the younger man lunged without thinking.

‘You gotta calm down, Lambert.’ Geralt secured the bandage. ‘This would never have happened if you’d just kept your cool.’

‘This would never have happened if I hadn’t been sold to this cult,’ Lambert mumbled under his breath.

Geralt ignored that. ‘You need to work on your technique. And you need to stop letting your anger get the better of you.’

Lambert had nothing to say to that and contented himself with glowering at Geralt instead. Geralt put away the medicine kit and then met Lambert’s gaze until he finally looked away.

If Lambert could ever forgive him for beating him so thoroughly, Geralt knew he wouldn’t forgive him for being right. The young Witcher was too proud for that.

‘Let’s have a drink,’ said Geralt with a sigh. ‘You won’t be able to spar for a couple of days anyway, might as well get hammered.’

Lambert looked like he was about to argue, but seemed to change his mind. ‘That’s fair.’

 

* * *

  
They drank vodka until the hour was late and the world seemed a blur. Conversation was limited, but it was nice to have some company all the same, thought Geralt.

‘Why do you like being a Witcher so much?’ Lambert slurred, glancing askance at him.

Geralt frowned. ‘Like it?’

‘Yeah. I mean, you never complain. You do your thing, you wander the world sleeping with beautiful women and slaying monsters and generally having a gay old time of it . . .’

‘If that’s what you think,’ said Geralt, draining his cup, ‘you really don’t know me at all.’

‘You mean, you don’t wander the world sleeping with beautiful women?’

Geralt shrugged, ‘No, that part’s true. Doesn’t mean I like being a Witcher. See this hair? Think I was born like this?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re always complaining about your trials, how awful they were. You don’t know the half of it.’ He picked up the bottle. It was nearly empty, so he portioned out what was left between his own cup and Lambert’s. ‘A Witcher’s what I am. There’s no point being bitter about it now. What’s passed is passed.’

He took another swig of his vodka, and they remained silent for a while, until Lambert had drained his cup and was staring into the bottom of it.

‘Damn. Out of vodka.’

‘Probably for the best,’ said Geralt. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘Go plough yourself, Geralt.’ Lambert stood up. ‘Gotta piss.’ He stopped, swaying, and looked down at his crotch, frowning. ‘Shit. All this talk of women, now I need a woman.’

‘No women at Kaer Morhen,’ Geralt pointed out.

‘I know that, Geralt!’ Lambert snapped. ‘Gotta go take care of this.’

He stumbled out of the room. Geralt drained his cup again, the last of the vodka washing down his throat, stinging a little bit. He grimaced. It was shit vodka. Then he stood up, and followed Lambert out of the room. He might as well mess with the kid.

He found him outside, pissing up against a bush. He looked around as Geralt approached, tucking himself away. ‘What do you want now?’

Geralt shrugged. ‘Thought I might give you a hand.’

Lambert looked dumbstruck. ‘You what?’

‘Got pretty worked up, too, thinking about my . . . exploits. No women around. I figure we might as well.’

‘Well, you figured wrong! I’m no pervert.’

‘You mean to tell me, growing up here with no girls around, you never once considered it?’

‘Yes!’ said Lambert sharply. ‘That’s exactly what I mean to tell you!’

Geralt gave another shrug and turned away. ‘Suit yourself. I just tend to find two hands are better than one, no matter who the other one belongs to.’ He began to walk away.

‘Wait,’ said Lambert, quiet enough that Geralt might not have been able to hear him without his superior senses. He halted.

‘Yes?’

‘C’mere.’

Hiding his smile, Geralt turned back towards Lambert, and began to walk towards him. Lambert’s face was flushed, and he looked resolutely away from Geralt.

‘You’re not fucking me. Okay?’

Geralt nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘And if you ever tell anyone about this—’

‘I don’t kiss and tell.’

‘There will not be any kissing.’

‘Fine.’

Lambert still wouldn’t meet his gaze, but he took a step closer. Then he took Geralt’s hand and brought it to the front of his trousers. Pissing must have been uncomfortable, Geralt mused, because Lambert was hard as Mahakam steel. As he gave a gentle squeeze, Lambert hissed, closing his eyes. He hadn’t done up his trousers properly, so Geralt could easily slip his hand inside to stroke Lamber’s cock.

Lambert released a deep groan. ’Fuck . . .’

‘Feels better than doing it yourself, doesn’t it?’

‘Sh—shut up!’

‘Want me to suck you off?’ asked Geralt, unable to keep the playful tone out of his voice. Lambert’s cock twitched in his hand, and he smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘If it’ll shut you up, do it!’

Geralt got to his knees. He pulled Lambert’s cock out of his trousers. It was long and slender, and already leaking. This wouldn’t take long.

He sucked the crown of it into his mouth, and Lambert moaned. Geralt licked from the base to the tip, swirling his tongue around it, eliciting sounds from Lambert that made his stomach tighten. Then he swallowed him down, and Lambert released a particularly loud moan before covering his mouth with his fist. Geralt groaned around Lambert’s cock, and reached down to touch himself through his trousers.

He took Lambert as deep as he could, and the younger Witcher’s hips bucked as he thrust into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt felt a hand on his head, and he reached up with his free hand, encouraging Lambert to grip his white hair. Lambert fisted his hand and pulled, causing Geralt to moan around his cock. Lambert wanted to call the shots, wanted to dominate him, that much was clear. And Geralt was nothing if not a giver.

Sliding his hand down the front of his trousers, Geralt took himself in hand. Getting Lambert to do it was probably too much to ask, so Geralt contented himself with watching the younger man fall apart under his ministrations, and listening to his stifled moans and racing heart. That was enough to really get him going, and he stroked himself roughly, letting Lambert fuck his face.

Lambert came without warning, his hot seed spilling down Geralt’s throat, and Geralt swallowed it down. He looked up at him through white lashes. Lambert’s face was slack, eyes nearly closed. Geralt slid his tongue around the head of Lambert’s cock, tasting his cum. Lambert whimpered.

‘Ah . . . stop!’ He pulled out of Geralt’s mouth and looked down at him, meeting his eyes for the first time since they began. He was breathing heavily still, his heart pounding in his chest. Geralt could hear it, felt it through the tip of Lamber’s cock, still only just touching his lips, though it was softening now.

Geralt kept his eyes fixed to Lambert’s as his breathing grew laboured and his balls tightened, and then he came with a deep, guttural groan, still not looking away. He saw Lambert’s eyes widen, and then he looked away again, blushing furiously.

‘You’re way too good at that,’ he mumbled.

Geralt shrugged, getting to his feet and tucking himself away. ‘Had some practice.’

‘You’re disgusting.’

Geralt laughed. ‘What does that make you, hm?’

‘Shut up!’ Seemingly unable to find anything else to say, Lambert did up his trousers, stormed past Geralt, and disappeared into the castle. Geralt chuckled. That was fun. He knew Lambert would never look at him the same way again, and he would never, ever forgive him. That was okay. There were enough other things Lambert would never forgive him for. Adding this to the list shouldn’t make a difference.

Whisteling a tune to himself, Geralt made his way to his quarters. Time to get some sleep.


	3. Siegfried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After killing the cockatrice in Vizima’s sewers, Geralt got Siegfried extremely drunk. It was very awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do one about Eredin, set during Geralt's time with the Hunt, but honestly I didn't feel like doing non-con for this story, so fuck it. Here instead is Siegfried.

‘To Geralt of Rivia!’ Siegfried raised his goblet. ‘He who kills cockatrices! Cocka . . . cockatri?’ He took a large swig of his wine. ‘What is the plural of cockatrice?’

Geralt shook his head, smiling. The knight clearly could not hold his alcohol. Geralt himself was feeling a light buzz, but nothing more. He’d need something stronger than wine if he wanted to catch up.

‘Barmaid! More wine for my friend, and vodka for me!’

‘I’d like some vodka,’ Siegfried slurred.

‘No, my friend. Wine will do for you.’ Geralt clapped Siegfried on the shoulder, and was surprised when the other leaned into the touch with a soft hum.

‘I have never seen anyone fight like you, you know,’ he murmured, and drained his goblet. ‘So swift and agile, but strong. Like a . . . like a cat. Or a . . .’

‘Wolf?’ Geralt supplied.

‘Perhaps.’ Siegfried sighed.

The barmaid returned with their drinks. Geralt drained his immediately and asked for another.

‘Geralt?’ said Siegfried.

‘Mhm?’

‘What’s Rivia like?’

Geralt chuckled. ‘You know, I don’t actually know.’

Siegfried frowned. ‘Are you not from there?’

Geralt shrugged. The truth was that he really wasn’t. He had needed a name to be known by on the Path. Witchers chose their own. ‘My mother left me with the Witchers at a young age,’ he said. It was true; he had been barely more than an infant, and had no memory of ever having lived anywhere other than Kaer Morhen. Of course, even those memories were fuzzy at present. He believed he had in fact visited Rivia at some point.

‘She . . . she just abandoned you?’ Siegfried sounded genuinely grieved for him, and Geralt couldn’t help but smile.

‘She had her reasons, I’m sure.’

‘Abominable thing to do, abandoning one’s own child,’ the knight muttered. He sipped his wine pensively. He appeared to have sobered a bit. ‘I barely remember my mother,’ he admitted after a few moments’ silence. ‘She died, you know, when I was very young.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Geralt.

A few drinks later, Geralt decided that Siegfried had definitely had enough.

‘Come, my friend,’ he said, helping Siegfried to unsteady feet. ‘Time to get you home.’ Siegfried did not argue, and meekly followed Geralt out of the inn. ‘Where are your quarters?’ Geralt asked.

‘Why are you asking?’

‘Because we need to get you into bed.’

‘Could it be _your_ bed?’ There was a sly, playful note to Siegfried’s voice, and Geralt gave him a sidelong glance, eyebrow quirked in question.

‘I don’t have a bed,’ he said.

‘Hm, too bad.’ Siegfried yawned. ‘I sleep in the barracks, for now.’ He stopped, and looked around. There appeared to be no one in the alley they were currently walking down, and he turned his eyes to Geralt again with a smile.

‘Siegfried,’ said Geralt slowly, ‘are you propositioning me?’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Siegfried, even as he stepped closer. ‘Though, if I were . . . what would you say?’

‘You’re drunk,’ Geralt pointed out.

‘Perhaps.’ Siegfried licked his lips. ‘And . . . not terribly experienced. But . . .’ Another step, and they were flush together, with Geralt’s back against the wall. ‘I think I want you, Geralt.’

‘You think?’

Geralt thought for a moment. He was fairly certain that he had been with men before. He had vague, hazy memories. And clearly, he had a reputation for ploughing a lot of women. And at the mention . . . He looked at Siegfried and could easily imagine those lips stretched around his cock. ‘Do you know what you’re asking?’

‘Do not treat me like a child, Geralt,’ said Siegfried. ‘I know what I want.’

Geralt couldn’t stop his slow smile. ‘Well. If you know what you want, you should take it.’

Siegfried kissed him, then. He was . . . not the best kisser, but his mouth was warm and tasted like wine, and Geralt thought he had probably had worse before. Siegfried’s hand came to rest at the front of Geralt’s trousers and, yes, Geralt’s body reacted to that touch.

He broke the kiss to look around. ‘If we’re seen—’

‘Don’t care,’ Siegfried breathed.

‘Well, you should, because people don’t take kindly to sodomites.’ Geralt took his hand and pulled him further into the shadows, in behind a stack of crates in the corner of the alley, then resumed their kiss. It didn’t last long, however, as Siegfried got to his knees, fumbling with Geralt’s trousers, undoing the front to get his cock out.

Siegfried was not the best at this, either, but a warm mouth was a welcome feeling nonetheless, and truth be told, Geralt already had a bit of a craving, despite having bedded two women in the Outskirts only a few days ago (and, truth be told, he somewhat regretted not having bedded Abigail; she did offer). Besides, fighting always left him a bit excited, and the cockatrice had been no easy kill.

As such, he soon found himself thrusting shallowly into Siegfried’s mouth, awkward though the knight’s ministrations were. He clearly had little to no experience in the art of loving. Geralt didn’t let himself come, afraid to overwhelm the man, and pulled out of Siegfried’s eager mouth, helping him to his feet so he could press him up against a crate and get at his trousers. His chain shirt was awkward to get out of the way, but Geralt managed well enough, and soon was on his knees himself, taking Siegfried’s length into his mouth while he stroked his own cock. Siegfried was much bigger than he had imagined.

Siegfried kept his mouth shut, bit his lip as he leaned his head back against the crate, uttering short gasps and barely audible grunts while Geralt worked him with his mouth. Siegfried’s hand slid into Geralt’s white hair, tugging at it slightly.

‘Geralt . . .’ he breathed. ‘Fuck me!’

Geralt took his mouth off Siegfried for a moment, stroking him with deft hands, and looked up at his face. Siegfried’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth open, panting, and Geralt laughed softly. ‘Doubt you could handle me right now,’ he said. ‘And you’d regret it in the morning. This will be awkward enough on its own.’

Siegfried moaned quietly in protest, but Geralt returned to his ministrations, and he hissed out a barely audible, ‘Geralt! Fuck . . .’

He came a moment later, spilling his seed into Geralt’s mouth, who swallowed some and spat out the rest.

‘Come here,’ Siegfried gasped, pulling at his hair, and Geralt stood, cock still in hand. Siegfried pushed his hand away and stroked him clumsily. Geralt had to help him out, covering his hand with his own. Siegfried kissed him sloppily, tongue a bit too insistent to be truly enjoyable, and then Geralt came, gritting his teeth.

Siegfried leaned his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder, breathing hard.

‘Feel good?’ asked Geralt, because in spite of his amusement he did want his partners to enjoy their time with him, no matter how awkward and sudden.

‘Mhm . . . Hope . . . hope it was all right for you as well.’

‘It was very good,’ said Geralt, humouring him.

Siegfried raised his head and kissed Geralt again, and then he stepped away and did up his trousers. ‘I, er . . . I should probably get to the barracks.’

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ Geralt agreed. ‘I’ll find somewhere to meditate ’til morning.’ He tucked himself away and did up his own trousers, grimacing at the cum that had landed on the shirt of his armour. He wiped it off with his thumb.

‘If . . . if you need me for anything, you know where to find me,’ said Siegfried. ‘If I’m not around another knight of the order can probably point you to my whereabouts. You know, should you need my help . . . or . . .’

Geralt shook his head. ‘I may request your help. But, Siegfried, I doubt this will happen again. All right?’

Siegfried sighed and nodded. ‘I’m not very good, am I?’

‘You’re okay. Don’t worry about it. Go get some sleep and try not to freak out in the morning.’ And because Siegfried looked so miserable, Geralt pressed his palm against his cheek and kissed him again, gently. ‘Goodnight, Siegfried of Denesle.’

Siegfried smiled. ‘And you as well, Geralt of Rivia.’


	4. Yaevinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of bliss, after the battle is over.

‘I do appreciate it, you know,’ said Yaevinn. 

Geralt took a sip of his wine. ‘Hm?’

‘What you have done for us. I know it was not an easy decision to make.’ He paused, drank some wine. ‘You had to kill a friend today. That knight.’

‘Siegfried.’ Geralt sighed. ‘There was never any way of changing his mind. A knight of the Order, through and through. For all that . . . He was misguided, but . . .’

‘He was a good man.’ Yaevinn’s words took Geralt by surprise, and he met his gaze. Yaevinn shook his head and smiled. ‘You are right to be surprised, I suppose. But the world is not divided into Scoia’tael and villains. As a Witcher, you know this better than most, Gwynbleidd. Sometimes good people make the wrong choices.’

‘And here I thought you were a militant, Yaevinn.’

‘Oh, I am that.’ Yaevinn smiled and drank deeply. ‘But I am prone to sentimentality, particularly when I am in my cups. So, here then is a toast, to fallen warriors. Ours and theirs alike.’ He drained his goblet, and Geralt followed suit. ‘Anyway. I know your code compels you to remain neutral. I am grateful that you did not. Do not for a second believe that I am not grateful, Geralt.’

Geralt shook his head. ‘I only did what I felt was right. I . . . remember more now than I did at first, but many details still escape me. People I ought to remember but don’t. And my Witcher’s training, our code, all of it is fuzzy at best. So now I follow my instincts. My gut. And my gut told me that this was the right thing to do. You were right. I have more in common with you than I have with most humans.’

‘Our choices are what defines us,’ said Yaevinn.

‘I would drink to that, but I’m out of wine.’

‘So are we all, unfortunately.’

The camp was quiet. Remaining in Vizima hadn’t been particularly tempting after everything that had happened, and so Geralt had accepted Yaevinn’s invitation. He would return, most likely the following day, but it was a relief to be able to ignore the political consequences that would no doubt follow, at least for tonight.

Around them, Yaevinn’s compatriots had near as all settled down for the night. Exhausted or drunk or both, they had found tents and bedrolls and were most of them fast asleep. Aside from a few scouts and sentries on duty, only Geralt and Yaevinn remained, sitting by the fire.

‘You helped me as well, you know,’ said Geralt. ‘I stood with you against the Order of the Flaming Rose, and you stood with me against Salamandra. So I’m grateful to you as well.’

‘For all you have done for me and mine, it was the least I could do.’ Yaevinn stood. ‘But now it is time for me to find my tent. You are welcome to join me if you like. I know you don’t need sleep in the strictest sense, but it must be more comfortable all the same.’

Geralt couldn’t help his sly smile as he stood as well. ‘Join you in your tent, huh?’ Perhaps it was the wine, or the after effects of battle, but Yaevinn, like most elves, possessed a certain otherworldly beauty, and though Geralt wasn’t fully aroused, now that the thought had entered his head it was hard to shake.

Yaevinn gave him a look that Geralt couldn’t quite read and set off in the direction of his tent. Geralt followed. Yaevinn’s tent stood a little ways off from the main camp. The perks of being a leader, Geralt supposed. It was small, and could not comfortably fit more than two people, but then that was all it needed to do.

As soon as they were inside, Yaevinn turned to Geralt. ‘You know, Aen Seidhe do not have the same . . . social restrictions as dh’oine do. Not in general.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is. So if there is something you want, Gwynbleidd, you need not rely on innuendo.’

Geralt’s smile widened. ‘But I like innuendo.’

Yaevinn rolled his eyes, and without further ceremony reached out to cup the front of Geralt’s trousers. The touch was welcome, and Geralt leaned in to press his lips to Yaevinn’s. This seemed to somewhat surprise the elf, who uttered a soft, ‘Mmf!’ but soon he melted, allowing himself to be kissed while he continued to palm Geralt through the fabric of his trousers.

The kiss was slow, languid. They were in no hurry. Yaevinn’s lips were surprisingly supple and pliant, his tongue soft like velvet. Geralt unbuckled the leather strap over Yaevinn’s shoulder, removing his wide belt, and Yaevinn let him. Geralt bestowed the same touch on him as he was currently receiving himself. The other released a sigh against Geralt’s lips.

‘Good?’ Geralt murmured.

Yaevinn simply nodded, and began to unlace the front of Geralt’s trousers so he could get at his cock properly. By this time, Geralt was fully hard, and he groaned softly as Yaevinn began to stroke him with nimble fingers.

They lay down together on Yaevinn’s bedroll, taking their time to undress and touch one another. Lately, sex for Geralt had been a rushed affair. There was always something he had to do, somewhere he needed to be. Now he had no such worries, and Yaevinn knew it. He wouldn’t have let Geralt rush even if he wanted to.

‘I have been curious, you know,’ said Yaevinn, running his fingers over Geralt’s pale chest. ‘Hard not to be, everything you hear of Witcher stamina. Not if one is even remotely interested in the male sex.’

‘Which you are.’

Yaevinn smiled. ‘Which I am. Clearly.’ He slid his hand down Geralt’s stomach and wrapped it around his cock again. ‘As are you, it would seem.’

‘Ah! What . . .what gave me away?’ Geralt grinned.

Yaevinn chuckled softly and gave Geralt a couple of deft strokes. ‘Is this a common occurence, or am I an exception?’

‘Not common, exactly . . . More for lack of opportunity than lack of will, though. Where there’s attraction, gender holds no relevance.’

‘A man after my own heart.’ Yaevinn bowed his head and took Geralt into his mouth, and for several minutes the world was quiet bliss. The elf was certainly talented, his tongue swirling around the crown of Geralt’s member before he swallowed him down as far as he would go. Geralt didn’t want to make too much noise, but silence was impossible, and he found himself uttering soft grunts of pleasure. Then Yaevinn let go and came back up to kiss Geralt’s lips. Geralt kissed him back hungrily, and reversed their positions, so Yaevinn was on his back beneath him.

They were both the dominant sort, Geralt knew that without asking. Yaevinn would never let Geralt fuck him, and Geralt wasn’t in the mood to be fucked. He couldn’t remember if he had ever been the receiving party, though the idea did not entirely put him off. Some other time, perhaps. Now he settled for kissing and licking his way down Yaevinn’s sculpted chest and abdomen, until he reached his prize.

Yaevinn’s cock, much like the rest of him, was long and slender. Geralt took it into his mouth, savouring the salty-sweet taste. Yaevinn combed his fingers through Geralt’s loose, white hair, tugging ever so slightly. Geralt found himself enjoying that, and hummed appreciatively around Yaevinn’s cock before he began to suck, bobbing his head up and down.

‘Mm . . . careful, or I’ll come,’ Yaevinn warned him after a few minutes.

Geralt took his mouth off him and met his gaze. ‘I don’t mind one bit if you do.’

Yaevinn smiled at him. ‘Come here.’

Geralt did as he was asked, leaving a few kisses on Yaevinn’s torso before reaching his mouth. Yaevinn grasped his hips, tugging Geralt into place so he lay on top of him, their cock’s aligned. He locked his gaze to the Witcher’s and arched his back, grinding his pelvis into Geralt’s, and Geralt swore and licked his lips.

He took Yaevinn’s hand, lacing their fingers together before he thrust down to meet him, sliding his own cock against Yaevinn’s. Yaevinn was mostly quiet, only uttering the occasional soft grunt or gasp. Geralt tried to match him, but it was difficult when his entire body was aching for release. ‘Fuck . . .’ he breathed. ‘Feels good . . .’

‘Shh.’ Yaevinn’s hand snaked up into Geralt’s hair and tugged gently once more. ‘Control yourself, vatt’ghern.’

Geralt tried to slow his movements, hold back on his impending climax, though it was easier said than done. Yaevinn tugged harder at his hair, which only made things worse. ‘Close!’ Geralt gasped.

‘No.’ Yaevinn’s tone was firm. ‘Not yet.’

With a sound that very nearly amounted to a whimper, Geralt stopped moving. Dominant did not even begin to cover it. Yaevinn was as ruthless a lover as he was a warrior. Panting, Geralt rested his forehead against Yaevinn’s. ‘You’re a cruel bastard.’

Yaevinn only laughed. ‘You can hold back until I say so.’ He loosened his grip on Geralt’s hair and combed gently through the strands. ‘Now keep going.’

Geralt started up again, with excruciating slowness, every thrust of his hips making him feel like he was on fire. How he could ever have believed that he was in control of any of this was now beyond him. ‘Good. That’s it,’ Yaevinn murmured, and pulled Geralt’s face down to kiss him. He reached between them, taking both their cocks in his hand, and they worked up a rhythm together. Then Yaevinn got noisier—not by much, but still—and his heartbeat more rapid, and Geralt thrust faster and harder into his hand.

Begging was not Geralt’s style. He was not in the habit of pleading, but now he gritted out, ‘Please! Fuck . . . Yaevinn, please let me—’

‘Yes,’ was all Yaevinn said, and Geralt came with a stuttering thrust of his hips, spilling his seed onto Yaevinn’s cock and stomach. Reaching down and batting Yaevinn’s hand away, because this much he was determined to do, he brought his elven lover to completion in a few rough strokes.

After that he collapsed on Yaevinn’s chest, leaving sloppy kisses there, while Yaevinn stroked his hair and released a satisfied sigh. ‘That was good, Gwynbleidd,’ he said.

Geralt only nodded, too exhausted and spent now to even speak. Once his heart and breathing had returned to normal, he rolled off Yaevinn and onto his back. Finally, he managed to say, ‘Just good? Felt pretty fucking spectacular to me.’

Yaevinn chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at Geralt, tracing the lines of his chest muscles with his fingers. ‘It was very good.’ Of course he wouldn’t say more than that. The bastard. He did kiss Geralt, though, and then, after cleaning them both up with his own shirt, invited him inside the warmth of the bedroll, where they lay snug, Geralt’s front to Yaevinn’s back.

‘Been a while since I’ve had occasion to stay and sleep,’ Geralt murmured, and kissed the back of Yaevinn’s neck.

‘Then sleep, vatt’ghern,’ said Yaevinn, his tone one of mingled annoyance and amusement. He took Geralt’s hand, which rested against his chest, laced their fingers together, and drifted off to sleep.

When they woke just before dawn, they did the whole thing over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture Yaevinn as someone who knows that he wants and will take it (with consent, obviously). And I love dominant elves. I promise more dominant elves in future. And anyway, I love making Geralt a little bit submissive. Power play is always fun.


	5. Cedric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cedric helped Geralt find the rose of remembrance, and Geralt repaid the favour with vodka and company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was already finished (it was, like, the second one I wrote), so figure I may as well upload it now. Merry Christmas! Oh, and sorry about the feels. Cedric's story is a sad one.

Geralt climbed the ladders up to the observation platform by Lobinden. As ever, Cedric stood at the edge, observing the forest, bow at his side. Geralt approached him.

Cedric spoke before Geralt had even reached him, his hunter’s ears no doubt recognising the sound of his gait. ‘Did you find your rose of remembrance, Gwynbleidd?’

Geralt nodded, stepping up next to him. ‘Yeah. Gave it to Triss.’

The elf smiled sadly. ‘The legend says if you give the rose to someone you love, it will never wilt.’

‘Mm. Legends say a lot of things.’ Geralt scratched the back of his neck, unwilling to continue this vein of the conversation. Cedric showed no signs of relenting.

‘Do you think it will live forever in Miss Merigold’s hands?’

Geralt considered telling him to mind his own fucking business, but something about that sad smile of his, his voice slurred by drink, made him hold his tongue. Cedric did not deserve his scorn. He was a kind elf.

‘I don’t know,’ said Geralt at last, truthfully.

Cedric nodded, and they stood in silence for a while. At last, Cedric looked at him. ‘Why did you come, Gwynbleidd? What do you need?’

Geralt shrugged. ‘Nothing. Wanted to thank you, for your advice on the kayran, and for helping me find the rose.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ Cedric turned his eyes back on the forest.

Geralt reached into his pack and retrieved a bottle of vodka. ‘Thought we might share a drink, if you’re willing.’

Cedric smiled again, glancing at him, and the bottle in his hand. ‘That I am always willing to do.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. There’s an oak nearby in the forest. I go there to think. And to drink. It would be nice to have company for once.’

‘Lead the way,’ Geralt told him.

* * *

The oak stood by a pond, amid ferns and moss. It was a grand oak indeed, thick branches forming a canopy of leaves above them. If it rained, Geralt was sure not a drop would reach them if they sat by the oak’s wide trunk.

They made themselves comfortable amid the roots of the tree, and Geralt passed Cedric the bottle. The elf took a long swig, and looked at the bottle. ‘This is . . . pricier than what I normally drink, I think.’

Geralt shrugged one shoulder, and took the bottle when offered. ‘Maybe.’ He studied Cedric’s face for a moment. The elf was not looking at him, instead gazing off between the trees, at some unseen thing in the forest. Or perhaps he was simply gazing at the forest itself. He wore a fond smile.

‘This forest,’ he said after a moment, ‘is everything to me. It is the place I know best. The place I love most. It is part of the reason I left the Scoia’tael. To dedicate myself to this.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Is it not beautiful, Gwynbleidd?’

The Witcher nodded. ‘It is. This is a beautiful place.’

‘It’s terribly elven of me, isn’t it?’ Cedric’s eyes gleamed with good humour then. He looked far happier here than Geralt had seen him in the brief time he had known him, and Geralt was pleased that he was capable of happiness still, however brief.

‘Yeah,’ Geralt conceded. ‘But that’s okay. You are of the Aen Seidhe, after all.’

Cedric laughed softly. ‘That I am.’

Geralt smiled. ‘Anyway, I’ve always been fond of elves.’ He paused, considering. ‘I think,’ he added after a moment. ‘Hard to be sure with my memory being largely gone.’

‘You have helped my kind in the past,’ said Cedric. ‘Even gone so far as to side with the Scoia’tael against dh’oine, I believe?’

Geralt gave another nonchalant shrug. ‘It was the right thing to do.’

‘And that is what sets you apart from other vatt’ghern. Your need to do the right thing, rather than maintain your neutrality. I . . . try to be neutral, now.’

‘I know,’ said Geralt. ‘I take it the Scoia’tael see this as betrayal.’

‘They have left me be, so far.’ Cedric took another drink of vodka, wiping his mouth. ‘But a battle is coming. I may once more have to pick a side . . . Or perhaps I’ll not get the chance . . .’ He trailed off, and Geralt took the bottle from him, taking yet another drink before handing it back. Taking it, Cedric fixed him with a penetrating gaze. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you fond of elves?’

Another shrug. ‘Guess I just like the underdog.’

Cedric shook his head. ‘No.’

Geralt sighed. ‘I feel I have a lot in common with the Elder Races. Witchers live long lives, you know. Not as long as your kind, perhaps, but . . . I’m nearly a hundred. Humans are mayflies by comparison, it’s hard to form lasting friendships, especially when most of them are distrustful of my kind. I know a thing or two about enduring the hatred of humans. Also,’ he said, smiling, ‘elves are just really pretty.’

Cedric laughed out loud at that. ‘Are we now?’

Geralt took in Cedric’s face, the sharp cheekbones, the angular features that all the same had a softness to them. ‘Yes. You are.’

Cedric looked thoughtful. He took another swig of vodka, and then scooted closer to Geralt, until he sat facing him, no more than two feet away. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in. When the Witcher did not pull away, Cedric touched his lips to Geralt’s. The kiss was feather light and soft. There was feeling, willingness, honesty in that kiss, and Geralt responded to it by cupping the side of Cedric’s face, running his thumb over his cheek. His mouth tasted of vodka, but he smelled like spring rain. Geralt felt desire rising in the pit of his stomach.

When they parted, Cedric was smiling. ‘Do you want me, Gwynbleidd?’ he slurred, drawing the word out.

Geralt hesitated a moment. ‘You’re drunk, Cedric.’

‘Yes, I always am. But you didn’t answer my question. Do you want me?’

‘Yes,’ said Geralt, with honesty.

Cedric kissed him again, harder this time, deeper, and Geralt could hear his heartbeat quickening. As Cedric’s tongue entered his mouth, Geralt uttered a soft groan. They came up for air a minute later, both panting. Geralt licked his lips. ‘Cedric . . . You sure you want this?’

‘I would not have kissed you otherwise,’ Cedric breathed.

That was all the encouragement Geralt needed, and he drew the elf into his lap, kissing him deeply. He pushed Cedric’s green jacket off his shoulders and kissed his neck, scraping his teeth over his jugular, and biting his shoulder, firmly but not painfully. Cedric was soft, pliant in his arms, and his body responded with great enthusiasm to Geralt’s touch. Geralt felt the elf’s hard cock against his thigh, and smiled.

‘Eager, aren’t you?’

Cedric released a small moan, and quivered when Geralt palmed him through his trousers. Cedric rocked his hips, and Geralt felt his own cock harden at the friction.

‘Will you fuck me, Gwynbleidd?’ Cedric’s voice shook, his entire body taut and trembling. ‘Please?’

‘I’ll do anything you want,’ Geralt replied, and meant it. Cedric needed this, needed someone to want him, to love him if only for a moment. And, in the moment, Geralt knew he would do just that, because in a way, he always did.

He reversed their positions, pressed Cedric down on his back, until he lay in the moss, amongst the ferns, gazing up at Geralt with eyes half closed. Like this, in the green, with the afternoon sun filtering through the foliage of the great oak above them, Cedric looked otherworldly, pure, beautiful. Geralt could see that, before the drinking and the pain, Cedric had been a proud elf. Confident in his heritage, but no less compassionate or kind. And he would have been an idealist. All Scoia’tael were, underneath it all. One would have to be, in order to fight for such a cause, an idealist at heart. Yaevinn had been pragmatic, but he too had been idealistic. Geralt wondered for a fleeting moment what had changed, to make Cedric abandon such ideals and become a realist. But then Cedric pulled him down into an open mouthed kiss, and all thought flew from Geralt’s mind.

He unstrapped his armour and undressed the elf with deft hands. He stroked Cedric’s cock, slowly, watching his eyes flutter closed, hearing his breath and his heartbeat change, speed up. When he took him into his mouth, Cedric whimpered softly. Geralt could tell that it had been a while since anyone had done this to him. Geralt slid his tongue over the head of Cedric’s cock, tasting the salty-sweet bitterness, before swallowing it down, as deep as he could, provoking a cry of pleasure from the other.

Geralt slid a hand up Cedric’s body. His smooth, hairless skin felt warm. He caressed his neck and cheek, and then pressed the tips of two fingers to his lips. Cedric parted them, pulled the fingers into his mouth, licking, until they were coated with saliva. So he knew how this was done.

Taking his hand back, Geralt reached between Cedric’s legs. The latter parted them willingly, raising his pelvis to provide access, thrusting into Geralt’s mouth as he did, and Geralt groaned around his cock. He pressed his fingers to Cedric’s hole, and after a moment it gave way, allowing for the entry of first one finger and then the other.

Geralt released his cock with a soft, wet pop, pressing his fingers as far in as he could, until Cedric was panting, covering his mouth with the back of his hand to stifle the moans issuing forth from his lips. Geralt pulled his fingers out, undid his trousers and pulled them down, finally revealing his own cock. Though already slick with pre-cum (he always had been a leaker), Geralt spat in his palm, stroking himself a few times. Then he positioned himself at Cedric’s entrance, and slowly, agonisingly pushed inside the tight warmth of him.

Cedric arched his back, and Geralt grasped his thigh, gritting his teeth, because this sensation was almost too much. It had been a good long while since he had been in someone’s ass. Longer still since he had done so with spit alone. As he sank in to the hilt, he groaned loudly, stilling, calming his heart and his breathing, getting used to how impossibly tight Cedric’s ass was. He worried that he was hurting him, but Cedric rocked his hips, and Geralt slid, impossibly, even deeper.

Staying still for a moment longer, he leaned forward, placing his weight on Cedric’s lean body and trapping his weeping cock between them. With his free hand, he stroked Cedric’s dark hair away from his sweaty brow, locking gazes with him, trying to read those old eyes. Cedric exhaled shakily, his eyes gleaming, pupils blown wide with lust, though the sun shone above them.

Geralt crashed his lips into Cedric’s and all at once began to move, coaxing a soft cry from the other’s throat, swallowing the sound. Pulling his mouth away, he leaned his forehead against Cedric’s and drew a shuddering breath of his own.

‘Fuck,’ he groaned. ‘You feel so good.’

Cedric’s voice was high, desperate. ‘As do you . . . Please . . . Don’t stop!’

Geralt kissed him again, picked up his pace. Cedric had loosened somewhat around him, less overwhelmingly tight now. He kissed Cedric’s cheek, his eyelids, ran his tongue down his neck, back up again to nip at his earlobe. Cedric pushed back against him, quivering with every thrust and uttering short, high moans, bordering on whimpers.

When Geralt felt his own climax building, he reached between them, taking Cedric’s cock in his hand. ‘Do you want to come?’ he asked, his voice even deeper and more gravelly than usual. He could hold back still, if Cedric hadn’t had his fill, but the elf nodded, and so Geralt began to stroke.

His partner did not last long, his seed spilling onto his stomach and over Geralt’s hand. He tightened up so much again at his orgasm that Geralt could muster but one more thrust before he swore and came, spending himself inside Cedric’s tight ass and collapsing on top of him, finding his lips again and kissing him, hard.

The kiss broke, and Cedric put his arms around Geralt, held him tight, breathing into his ear. His hand went into Geralt’s white hair, some of which had come loose from its ponytail, and caressed the short hair on the sides. After a moment, Geralt rolled off him, and after taking a few deep breaths, stood and made his way over to the pond where he rinsed his hand and, for lack of anything better, soaked a tuft of moss in the cool water and returned with it so Cedric could clean the cum from his stomach and chest.

They dressed, and sat in silence after that, finishing off the bottle of vodka. Cedric had the last sip, draining it and putting it down on the ground.

‘I dreamt the other night that I died,’ said Cedric after a while. ‘I think . . . I believe I’m not long for this world.’ Geralt opened his mouth to argue, but Cedric raised his hand to silence him. ‘Don’t pity me, or try to comfort me. I am ready. I’ve lived too long. And you have already provided me with all the comfort I need.’

He met Geralt’s eyes, then, and a sad smile played across his features. ‘I am glad that we could share this, Geralt.’

Geralt was accustomed to elves calling him by his moniker, White Wolf, in their Elder Speech. Gwynbleidd. He liked the sound of his true name spoken in Cedric’s soft, gentle voice, and he leaned closer, hand firmly gripping the back of Cedric’s neck, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, as though he could taste his name on them.

‘So am I, Cedric,’ he said, touching his forehead to Cedric’s again. ‘So am I.’

* * *

When the elf lay bleeding out at the foot of the old oak, Geralt knew he had been right. He took it seriously, Cedric’s vision about him. After all, he’d known he was going to die, when they were here together, what felt like a lifetime ago, though it had really only been a couple of days. Geralt regretted nothing, and he sat with Cedric until the life left his eyes and his heart stopped beating; watched as the forest bid him farewell. Then he closed the elf’s glassy, unseeing eyes, kissed his forehead, and whispered, ‘Va faill, Cedric.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, Geralt always has the undercut and ponytail. Nothing else feels right to me, somehow. :P


	6. Iorveth I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was clear that Iorveth didn’t trust Geralt one bit. That was fine. Geralt didn’t need him to trust him. He just needed him to fuck him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised more dominant elves.

There was something fascinating about Iorveth. He was angry, of course, distrustful of everyone who wasn’t one of his Scoia’tael (and even some of those), but he had still allowed himself to trust Geralt. It spoke of desperation, only Iorveth didn’t seem desperate. Perhaps he was convinced he could beat Geralt in a fight, should it come to that, but he was too intelligent for that degree or arrogance, arrogant though he was. He was hard to figure out, but perhaps that was the attraction. Geralt did occasionally enjoy a good puzzle.

Now they stood at the starboard bow together, looking out at the passing scenery in silence. They were about half a day out of Flotsam. Now that Geralt had the opportunity, it was hard not to look at Iorveth. Of all the things about him that were fascinating, the most obvious was his scar and the missing eye hidden by his red bandana. It was a shame that someone had decided to mar such a beautiful face—and Geralt could see that Iorveth had been extremely beautiful, even for an elf—but in some ways his scarred visage made him yet more beautiful. It was a raw beauty, wild and untempered, but beauty nonetheless.

‘You’re staring,’ Iorveth drawled, not even looking at Geralt.

Geralt made no apology. ‘Just trying to figure you out. You’re . . . different. It’s interesting.’

Iorveth glanced at him. ‘You’re not what I expected either,’ he admitted. ‘You’re different from other dh’oine.’

‘Not a human,’ said Geralt.

‘Not like other vatt’ghern, either,’ said Iorveth, speaking over him. ‘Are you not meant to be neutral? Choose no sides? Yet you sided with us, as you sided with Yaevinn.’

‘I’ll tell you what I told him. With most of my memory gone, that training makes no sense to me. I do what I think is right. Yaevinn told me I have more in common with you than I do with humans. He was right.’ Geralt met Iorveth’s gaze. ‘What about you? You were quick to trust me.’

‘I don’t trust you, Gwynbleidd. I did what had to be done, what made most sense.’

‘Still,’ said Geralt. ‘That’s twice now that I’ve had you in bondage.’ He smirked. ‘Think that will repeat itself?’

Iorveth scoffed. ‘As if I would ever submit to you. It would have to be the other way around.’

So they were flirting now. Sort of. Geralt wasn’t sure, and Iorveth’s face gave nothing away. He gazed out over the water again. The sun was setting, casting everything in a golden glow. ‘Not a completely impossible thought, under the right circumstances,’ Geralt murmured, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Iorveth look up at him sharply.

Iorveth pushed away from the railing. ‘I need to go check on my men. We will speak more later.’

‘I look forward to it.’

* * *

That evening, Geralt went below deck in search of Iorveth. Though no such words had been spoken, his gut feeling told him that he would be welcome in the small cabin where Iorveth had taken up residence. The Scoia’tael leader had not taken the captain’s quarters for his own, instead giving it to the women Geralt had rescued from the burning tower. Geralt knocked.

‘Enter,’ said Iorveth’s voice from within, and Geralt opened the door, stepping inside, and closed it again behind him. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’ Iorveth sat on his cot, back against the wall, and regarded him with his one cold eye. He wore his bandana, but had removed his armour, under which he wore a linen shirt (dyed green, because elf, obviously) and simple trousers. ‘I thought it more likely that you would take one of our women into your bed, one of the ones you saved. I’m sure they would near as all like to thank you for it.’ He spoke in a bored drawl, though something in his posture gave him away as anything but.

‘Perhaps,’ said Geralt with a shrug. ‘You’re more interesting, though.’

‘Is that so?’ It was the first time Geralt had seen something like a smile grace the elf’s features, if only for a moment. ‘And what of your sorceress?’

‘What of her?’

Iorveth remained silent for a moment longer. Then he said, ‘Well, don’t just stand there.’

Geralt approached the cot, but hesitated as he reached the foot of it. It was unlike him to be nervous, but under Iorveth’s penetrating gaze he suddenly felt so _young_. Iorveth got up off the cot and stepped up to Geralt, looking him up and down appraisingly. Then, without touching him, he leaned in so his mouth was close to Geralt’s ear and whispered, ‘If you’d like me to touch you, you’ll have to make a move of your own, Gwynbleidd.’

That broke the spell. With a growl, Geralt grasped the back of Iorveth’s neck and crashed their lips together, licking into his open mouth. Iorveth’s mouth was warm, his full lips supple, and his tongue soft in contrast to his sharp wit. Geralt pressed him backwards, pushed him up against the wall and bit into his neck. Iorveth gasped, but soon he grabbed Geralt by the shoulders, reversing their positions. He was surprisingly strong. As tall as Geralt, he was no less powerfully built, and now he grasped Geralt’s wrists and pinned them to the wall above his head, attacking his mouth and neck and throat with lips, tongue, and teeth.

Geralt’s hips were still free, and he ground his pelvis into Iorveth’s. The elf responded by shoving his leg in between Geralt’s thighs. Geralt fought to free himself (though perhaps not as hard as he otherwise might have), managed to get his wrists out of Iorveth’s grasp, and attempted to reverse their positions again. They wrestled where they stood for a while, and Iorveth won, shoving Geralt face first into the wall, arms pinned behind his back.

His breath was hot against Geralt’s neck as he whispered in his ear, ‘I told you I wouldn’t submit to you.’ He pressed a kiss to the soft skin just behind Geralt’s earlobe. ‘I’m going to fuck you, Gwynbleidd,’ he murmured. ‘I’m going to plough your arse so hard you won’t be able to walk straight. And I’ll have you begging like a whore by the time I’m done with you.’ He bit the back of Geralt’s neck, causing the Witcher to groan louder than he had intended. Iorveth chuckled. ‘Just how I wanted you.’ He reached around Geralt to cup him through his trousers, finding him hard. ‘And just how _you_ wanted _me_ , no?’

It was. It really, really was, and Geralt had been trying not to think about it since their earlier conversation. He wasn’t about to admit to it, though. ‘Son of a whore!’ he growled, pretending to resist. It was a game. Iorveth knew it too. If Geralt didn’t want it, he could easily overpower the elf and leave. ‘Get on with it, then!’

Iorveth uttered another soft laugh. ‘No, Gwynbleidd. I intend to take my time with you.’ He licked the shell of Geralt’s ear and sucked his earlobe into his mouth. Then, one handed, he unlaced Geralt’s trousers and slid his hand inside. Geralt threw his head back with a low groan, and Iorveth took the opportunity to lick and bite at what he could reach of Geralt’s exposed throat from his current position. He stroked Geralt’s cock, fast and without ceremony.

Geralt gasped. ‘Wait! You . . . I won’t last long if you—’

‘Mm, I know. That’s the whole point. Get it out of the way now and use your body for my pleasure after. Call it retribution for letting that guard strike me before.’

‘Couldn’t—ah!—couldn’t blow our cover. Fuck!’ Geralt tried to hold it back, but Iorveth was relentless, and when the elf tilted Geralt’s face towards him to capture his lips, Geralt came with a loud grunt, thankfully muffled by Iorveth’s mouth. As much as elves didn’t care who ploughed whom, he wasn’t keen on for instance Zoltan catching wind of what he was doing; dwarves were less accepting of sodomy.

Iorveth released Geralt, and the Witcher was allowed a moment’s reprieve, leaning his forehead against the wall and trying to calm his breathing. His trousers were stained with cum. A worry for a later time. After a few moments, Iorveth turned Geralt around to face him with a firm pull at his shoulder, and Geralt found that the elf had taken his cock out. It was a thing of beauty, long and thick and clearly hard, and Geralt instinctively licked his lips.

‘This what you want?’ Iorveth grasped Geralt’s shoulder and pushed him to his knees. He pressed the crown of his cock against Geralt’s lips. ‘Open wide, then.’

Geralt did as he was told, taking it in as far as he could manage. Apparently, he had managed to surprise Iorveth who, for the first time since they began, uttered a soft moan of his own. Geralt relaxed his throat and took Iorveth in to the hilt. The elf grasped his hair and groaned. Pulling back, Geralt coughed. He had no idea how many times he had done this before losing his memory, but judging by the reactions of the partners he’d had since, he was good at it. Sucking cock was apparently an instinct, much like fighting. Second nature. Muscle memory.

He used his tongue, tasting the salty pre-cum, and took Iorveth into his mouth again, working him slowly. Iorveth began to thrust shallowly into Geralt’s mouth, and occasionally Geralt would relax his throat and take him all the way in again. He was getting hard once more, listening to the soft pants and gasps escaping Iorveth’s mouth.

‘Fuck . . . I’d love to feed you my cum, vatt’ghern.’ Iorveth pulled out of his mouth. ‘But that is for another time. Strip.’

Geralt got to his feet again and began to remove his clothing. Iorveth watched him, taking in his pale, scarred body as it was revealed. There was something like admiration in his voice when he said, ‘You’ve fought many battles. Haven’t you, Gwynbleidd?’

‘More than I can remember,’ said Geralt truthfully, removing the last of his garments. He stood before Iorveth, naked and exposed, wondering what would happen next. When Iorveth remained still, Geralt took a step towards him, reaching for his bandana. Iorveth slapped his hand away.

‘Don’t you dare!’ he hissed. ‘Try that again and I’ll kick you out of here naked. Understood?’ Geralt nodded, stepping back and raising both hands in surrender. He realised now that Iorveth didn’t cover his scars for the benefit of others, but for himself. How much disgust must he have encountered from others, for such a proud elf to feel ashamed? ‘Good. Face the wall again,’ Iorveth ordered, and Geralt did as he was told.

Turning his back on an enemy (though Iorveth was an ally, at the moment he felt somewhat like the opposite) went against every instinct he had, and he felt his body tense up. He listened for Iorveth’s breathing, his heartbeat, the sounds he made. The rustle of clothes; so he too was getting undressed. The stopper being pulled from a small flask or vial. Then footsteps as he approached. Fingers slick with oil pressed against Geralt’s entrance suddenly, and Geralt tensed further, uttering a soft grunt. ‘Relax,’ said Iorveth’s voice in his ear. ‘Breathe.’ In spite of his commanding tone, there was an odd tenderness to his words now.

Geralt tried to relax his body to let Iorveth in. A few deep breaths had his asshole give way, one of Iorveth’s fingers slipping inside. Geralt couldn’t help his loud groan, and Iorveth reached around him and covered his mouth with his free hand. Again, he was hard, firm, commanding, but he stroked Geralt’s cheekbone with his thumb in a gesture that was, once again, strangely gentle. ‘That’s it,’ he murmured.

Iorveth took his time working him open. Geralt was grateful for that. He couldn’t recall anyone doing this to him before, though that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. It hurt when Iorveth stretched him, but it felt good, too, and Geralt pushed back on his fingers to get him to go deeper.

Finally, he felt Iorveth’s cock pressing against him, and then it slid inside. He worked his way deeper with shallow thrusts, and Geralt didn’t know how to keep quiet or still. He pressed his tongue against the palm of Iorveth’s hand and, to his satisfaction, heard Iorveth’s breath hitch in his throat.

Once he was all the way inside, Iorveth kept his promise. He fucked Geralt hard, but though it hurt, the pain soon gave way to pleasure and staying quiet became harder still. Geralt grunted with every thrust, and Iorveth did as well.

Hard. Fast. Rough. But then, strangely tender again as he slowed down, pressing a kiss to the back of Geralt’s neck, before picking up the pace once more. Iorveth was full of contrasts, himself a contradiction. Suspicious, then trusting. Cruel, then kind. Rough, then tender. Here was an elf who fought for something. Not simply to rebel, but to accomplish, and everything he did had a purpose. He wasn’t fucking Geralt to pass the time. He had some _reason_ for doing it, though Geralt hadn’t yet figured out what.

Soon, though, Geralt lost all concept of thought. Now all there was was Iorveth’s hot breath in his ear, Iorveth’s cock in his ass, Iorveth’s hands on his skin. It burned like a white hot flame, inside and out, and all Geralt could do was feel. He _felt_ Iorveth’s heartbeat, quick and hard and so alive, pulsing through Geralt’s own body with each thrust of Iorveth’s hips. He _felt_ the scent of sweat and sex, of his own cum on Iorveth’s hand. He _felt_ the taste of it, salty and bitter on his tongue as he once again pressed it to Iorveth’s palm. Eyes closed, forehead pressed against the wall, Geralt felt all of it.

Iorveth removed his hand from Geralt’s mouth to grasp his hips and Geralt did what Iorveth had promised he would make him do; between ragged breaths, he begged. ‘Fuck . . . Iorveth . . . Please, don’t stop! Feels . . . Iorveth . . . Gods, I need you!’ He barely knew what he was saying. ‘Please . . . need your cum . . .’ And he repeated his lover’s name, again and again, like a chant. A prayer.

When Iorveth came, it was with a quiet gasp, head bowed and forehead pressed against the back of Geralt’s shoulder. He took a moment to compose himself before he pulled out and turned Geralt around again. He kissed him, hard, and then, instead of taking him in his hand, got to his knees and brought him off with his mouth, swallowing every drop when Geralt came within half a minute, biting his own fist to keep quiet.

Geralt’s knees were shaking, and he leaned back against the wall to keep himself upright. His heart still hammered in his chest. Iorveth stood. Now that Geralt could see him, in all his naked glory, he realised just how powerfully built Iorveth truly was, muscular and strong. He had the chest and arms of an expert archer. His skin, smooth and almost golden, glistened with a sheen of sweat. Geralt longed to touch, but hadn’t the strength.

Iorveth stepped close to him. With that same odd tenderness he kissed Geralt’s lips. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Lie down.’ He let Geralt lean on him, and though the cot was narrow, somehow they both managed to fit under the blanket, Iorveth stroking Geralt’s hair until he came down from the intensity of the experience. Once he had, Geralt laughed, turning his head to meet Iorveth’s eye.

‘That was . . . Thank you,’ Geralt murmured, and because Iorveth was lying on his left side, Geralt reached out to cup his right cheek, thumb brushing what was visible of his scar. Iorveth flinched, and for a moment Geralt thought he might slap his hand away again. But he didn’t, though he gazed at Geralt with suspicion and his face was set in a scowl. ‘I don’t mind, you know,’ said Geralt softly. ‘Plenty scarred myself. I’d like to see you, if you’ll let me.’

Iorveth seemed to hesitate, though his expression softened just a little bit. When he said nothing, Geralt moved to untie the bandana, and Iorveth let him. It came away, revealing sleek dark hair and an empty socket where his eye had once been, a red and jagged scar covering the entire side of his face. Iorveth shut his eye tightly, drawing a shaky breath. ‘Hey. Look at me,’ said Geralt. After a moment, Iorveth opened his eye again and met Geralt’s gaze, jaw set in defiance. Geralt only smiled. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered, and kissed Iorveth’s scar softly.

Iorveth scoffed, breaking eye contact, and Geralt thought he saw a slight tinge of pink grace his cheeks. ‘Shut up, Gwynbleidd. Go to sleep.’

Wordlessly, Geralt kissed Iorveth’s lips once more before turning around, back pressed against Iorveth’s front. Iorveth draped his arm over Geralt’s middle and held him as they both drifted off to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth is my favourite. There will be a total of three stories about Iorveth, because I think his dynamic with Geralt is so interesting and amazing. Also, I blame [Bloodymoonwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodymoonwolf/pseuds/Bloodymoonwolf) and their fic [My Life I Owe To You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578604/chapters/36168426) for the fact that Iorveth is a massive Dom in my headcanon. Thanks, Bloodymoonwolf! <3


	7. Zoltan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was forgotten the next morning. Only I, the casual observer, recall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is just kind of silly, really, but I got the idea and it wouldn't leave. It's possible they're a bit OOC in it... Set at an undisclosed point in time while staying in Vergen during Witcher 2. Possibly right after the siege, before Geralt and Iorveth leave for Loc Muinne, or maybe they've been killing Rotfiends or something, I dunno. You decide.

Geralt raised his tankard in a toast. ‘To Zoltan Chivay! Toughest dwarf I’ve ever known!’

‘Only the toughest dwarf?’ Zoltan hiccuped. ‘Zoltan Chivay is the mightiest warrior that ever lived! I killed . . . I killed five— _five_ Geralt! Five in that last wave alone!’

The Witcher laughed. ‘Five, huh? Well, I’ll have you know, I killed fifteen. You’re tough, Zoltan, but you’re not,’ he stifled a burp, ‘not as tough as Geralt of Rivia!’

I sighed and rolled my eyes. ‘Never knew you two to be so competitive.’

‘It’s the drink,’ said Zoltan matter-of-factly. ‘Mahakaman mead! Makes you . . . Puts hair on your chest! Makes you a man!’ He banged his fist on the table. ‘Eh, Geralt?’

‘Damn right!’ said Geralt and drained his goblet and waved to the bartender. ‘Another!’

‘But women!’ said Zoltan. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many women I’ve had, Geralt.’

‘You’re right, I do not.’ Geralt smirked.

‘You wound me!’

‘Dwarven women don’t count,’ Geralt insisted. ‘Do they even exist? I’ve never seen one!’

‘We’re very protective of them,’ said Zoltan defensively.

‘Either way,’ said I, ‘neither one of you can compete with me. You may as well give up now.’

They looked like they were about to argue, but then they both shrugged and returned to their drinks.

I shook my head and strummed my lute.

 

_‘A headstrong dwarf and a Witcher of lore_

_Did one night drink too much mead and therefore_

_They argued over who was truly the best_

_And it ended up as a pissing contest!’_

 

Zoltan snapped his fingers. ‘That’s not a half bad idea! Completely measurable!’

Geralt laughed. ‘Too true! Let’s do it!’

I frowned. ‘Do what?’

‘Pissing contest!’ Zoltan grinned.

‘Really?’ I looked from one to the other. ‘You’re really doing this?’

‘Hey, it was . . . it was your idea, Dandelion!’ said Zoltan. ‘You’re to blame! And now you have to be the judge. Come on!’ He drained his mead in one swig. So did Geralt, even though he’d only just gotten it.

I hesitated. I had exactly no desire to see Geralt or Zoltan piss, let alone both of them at once. Part of me was a bit curious as to how this would play out, however, and so, when my very drunk friends stood from their seats and stumbled toward the exit, I reluctantly followed.

‘We can’t just do it here,’ said Geralt, scratching his chin, once we stood outside The Cauldron.

‘Up this way,’ said Zoltan, and we followed him into an alley of sorts. ‘Let’s do this, then.’ He undid his trousers.

I looked away in embarrassment. Geralt did not. He went to stand next to Zoltan and pulled his cock out as well. ‘Come on, Dandelion, you said you’d be the judge!’

‘I said no such thing!’

‘You followed! That’s as good as a promise!’ said Zoltan.

‘. . . Do I really have to?’ I asked. ‘I mean, really?’

‘Yes,’ they both said together. I turned my eyes to them and tried resolutely not to look at their manhoods.

‘Fine.’ I folded my arms. ‘Ready, set, piss!’

They both did, hard yellow streams hitting the cobblestones. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be measuring. How far they were pissing? Who pissed the longest? Which puddle splashed the most?

Zoltan stopped first, and Geralt gave a triumphant laugh. ‘Hah! I win!’

‘You had more to drink than I did!’ Zoltan glared at him. ‘Also, my piss splashed against the wall, I clearly pissed the hardest.’

‘Yeah, but you’re two feet shorter than me,’ said Geralt, grinning. ‘Also . . . mine is bigger than yours.’

I groaned and rolled my eyes.

‘I’m a grower, not a shower,’ Zoltan grumbled and made to put his cock away.

There was a mischievous glint in Geralt’s eye when he next spoke. ‘Prove it.’

Zoltan met his gaze defiantly. ‘Oh, I’ll fucking prove it, Witcher! Dandelion?’

‘No!’ I said. ‘No, absolutely not, I will have no part in this. I’m leaving.’

‘No you’re not,’ said Zoltan. ‘We need a fair and unbiased judge!’

‘You expect me to watch while you—’ I swallowed. ‘You are both insane. You’ll regret all this in the morning, you know.’

But they weren’t listening. Instead they both took themselves in hand and began to stroke, each staring at the other’s manhood. I must have blushed scarlet. This was too much. And yet I couldn’t seem to look away.

I had thought maybe they’d stop when they were hard, measure, and then tuck their cocks away to finish on their own later, but that was not what happened. Instead, they continued to stroke, their breathing growing heavy and laboured.

Zoltan’s face was red, and Geralt was staring at his friend’s manhood with something akin to hunger. That was unsettling, and I decided not to look at his face. That left me with only one place to look, and that was their cocks.

It seemed size was no longer the object of the contest. Now, they were both trying not to finish first. It was clear from the way Geralt groaned, swore, and slowed the movement of his hand before speeding up again, and the way Zoltan grunted and tried to stifle a moan. I looked at their faces once more. They both gritted their teeth, and now they were no longer staring at each other’s cocks. Instead, they were looking each other right in the eye.

Of course, Geralt had his mutated Witcher’s stamina. Trying to keep up with him was hopeless in the first place, so it was no wonder Zoltan came first. Once he had, it seemed Geralt had no reason to hold back anymore, though in hindsight, with all I now know, it is possible that seeing Zoltan ejaculate made it impossible for him to hold back his own orgasm. Cum dripped onto the cobblestones below and I looked away again, trying to control my own heartbeat. Finally, they both put their cocks away and did up their trousers.

‘I won,’ said Geralt simply.

‘Damned Witcher . . .’

‘Face it, you could never beat me.’

‘But one thing remains!’ said Zoltan and turned to me. ‘Dandelion! Which one of us has the bigger cock?’

I sighed, shaking my head. ‘Hard to tell. Honestly, I’m impressed you could both get it up given how drunk you are.’ I paused. I really hadn’t been able to tell, though I was forced to admit to myself that they were both rather well endowed . . . But then, Geralt had beaten the dwarf at everything so far. I should let Zoltan have this one. ‘Zoltan’s is a tad bigger.’

‘Hah! I told you so!’ Zoltan shouted with glee.

Geralt shook his head. ‘You must be mistaken, Dandelion. We’ve got to do it again.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘No, never again. If you two want to measure the size of your manhoods or see who can piss the furthest, that’s on you. I’ll have no part in it.’ And with that, I turned and walked away. What may have happened after, I do not know.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, I found Zoltan and Geralt in a sorry state. They both lay draped over the table, and when I sat, Zoltan gave me a shaky, ‘Shh.’ He glanced at me with one eye. ‘Don’t sit so loudly.’

‘Hungover?’ I asked.

‘No need to shout,’ Geralt complained. I tried my hardest not to laugh.

‘That was my normal voice, Geralt.’ I glanced from one to the other of them. ‘I suppose it’s no wonder. You were both very drunk last night.’

‘Cannae remember a thing.’ Zoltan sat up a bit. ‘Last night’s a complete blur.’

Geralt nodded into the table. His voice came out muffled by the sleeve of his armour. ‘Yeah. Me too. I completely blacked out. And I’m a fucking Witcher, that never happens with my metabolism!’

‘That’s Dwarven mead for you!’ There was a certain degree of pride in Zoltan’s voice. ‘If you drink it like you drink that Temerian shite you’re guaranteed to pass out at some point.’

‘Seems _you_ were drinking it like the Temerian shite, too,’ I pointed out. ‘So neither of you remember a thing?’

‘Nothing,’ said Zoltan.

‘Not a thing,’ Geralt echoed, forehead still pressed to the table. ‘Just want this headache to go away . . .’

‘You should eat something,’ I said. ‘Might help.’

‘Ugh, no . . . Think I’m gonna throw up . . .’ Geralt stood up abruptly and stumbled out of the inn.

‘Why do you ask, anyway?’ said Zoltan. ‘Did something happen?’

If neither of them had any idea of what they had done the night before, I wasn’t going to tell them. It was probably just as well. Geralt might have been able to deal with it, but Zoltan would probably lie down and die if he knew that he and Geralt had jerked off together.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing at all.’


End file.
